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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363404">in a life unremembered</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook'>therestlessbrook</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>and my heart beside [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:39:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Do you… do you know the date?”</em>
</p><p>  <em>She tells him.</em></p><p>  <em>Color drains out of the man’s face. “That was—Karen. That was years ago.” He swallows hard. “You—you know who I am?” </em></p><p>  <em>He looks so utterly distraught in that moment that part of Karen wants to lie. She doesn’t want to cause him pain but she’s going to. </em></p><p>  <em>“No,” she says. </em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Castle/Karen Page</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>and my heart beside [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264913</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>304</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in a life unremembered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Karen Page should have known that coming to New York wouldn’t solve all of her problems.</p><p>She’d done it on a whim, because her last secretary job had ended when a paper company went under, bought out by a competitor. So she opened up apartment listings in New York because it had seemed like something new, a fresh start, an adventure.</p><p>She must have had some kind of adventure, because when she wakes up, she’s in a hospital bed.</p><p>Her head aches and there’s a sluggish, dull sensation lingering in every inch of her body. Her fingers, her arms, her shoulders—even her face feel as though she’s been buried in sand for days and is only re-emerging. She blinks, and the light is startling. She does it again, then again. She can’t move, but she can feel. Which is how she knows there’s a stray strand of hair caught in her eyelash, and it itches and tickles, but she hasn’t quite figured out how to make her arms take commands yet.</p><p>Before she can try, there’s warmth against her skin. Light fingers brush away the offending hair, and then linger at the corner of her eye. It’s a rather intimate touch, the kind Karen hasn’t experienced for quite some time. And that’s what gives her the energy to force her eyes open and gaze around the room.</p><p>She’s definitely in a hospital. The room is sterile and white and smells a little like bleach. She blinks again and again, trying to remember how she got here. Was there a car accident? She doesn’t own a car, not right now. Maybe someone hit her. Or—</p><p>That’s when she sees the man sitting beside her.</p><p>He’s handsome, in a rugged, lumberjack kind of way. His beard is thick but well-groomed, and his hair is just long enough to show dark curl. His eyes are intent, focused on her. And he holds her hand, thumb stroking her palm. His other hand falls away from her cheek. “Hey,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the relief in his voice. “Shh. You’re okay.” He squeezes her hand gently. “Don’t move, okay?”</p><p>She gazes at him. Her drug-hazed mind is trying to figure this out. Maybe he’s a hospital volunteer or one of the clergy.</p><p>“What happened?” she asks.</p><p>Something crosses his face in a flash. “You don’t remember?”</p><p>“No,” she manages to say. Her voice is rough, too dry. She licks her cracked lips.</p><p>“You thirsty?” he asks.</p><p>She can’t muster the energy to nod, but he seems to see the answer in her face.</p><p>The man releases her hand and rises, going to the door and quietly talking to someone. When he returns, he has a foam cup full of ice chips. With a plastic spoon, he places some of the ice chips on her tongue and she sucks at them gratefully. The coolness wets her tongue and mouth, slides down her throat. She feels instantly more human. He feeds her another spoonful—and it’s only then she realizes how intimate this is—and it’s probably not the kind of thing a hospital volunteer would do. He’s not dressed in nurse’s scrubs. He wears a sweatshirt that looks as though he slept in it, and there’s a heavy black coat slung over the back of his chair.</p><p>When her mouth feels less dry, she says, “Was I in an accident?”</p><p>He shakes his head, his expression clouding. “No. You got shot. Round clipped the back of your head, but it didn’t penetrate the skull. They had to shave some of your hair. I knew you’d hate that.” He seems to make an attempt at a smile, but it fades fast. “You’ve got a bad concussion. There was some swelling, and the doctors thought you might need surgery for a while. They gave you some drugs—tried to bring down the inflammation. It worked, looks like.” He looks exhausted, as if he’s been sitting beside her for days. And now, she realizes he probably has been. The events he just described—they didn’t happen in the last few hours.</p><p>Then the rest of his words finally seem to sink into her. But none of them make sense. “I got shot?” she repeats. “Was—was I mugged?”</p><p>He exhales. “No. It was a mob hitter. Pissed that you put his grandfather behind bars—the trial just ended. I was outside of the courthouse, saw the man pull the gun. Didn’t get there in time to stop it, but when I yelled at you—you turned to look at me, and that’s why the bullet clipped you.”</p><p>So he saved her. Maybe he’s a cop or just a do-gooder. That might explain why he’s been here all of this time: he feels some degree of responsibility.</p><p>But something still doesn’t add up. “What do you mean,” she says, “that I put his grandfather behind bars?”</p><p>The man’s expression changes subtly. Some of the determination loosens, breaks away—leaving behind uncertainty. “Karen,” he says.</p><p>“I don’t know any mobsters,” she says.</p><p>The man’s forehead creases. “You don’t remember writing the article?”</p><p>“I’m not a writer,” she says, confused. “I’m a secretary. You’ve got—you’ve got the wrong person.”</p><p>Panic flashes across his face—bright and startling in its intensity. “Karen. You’re a crime journalist.”</p><p>“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I just moved to New York,” she says, voice still croaky. “Two weeks ago.”</p><p>The man leans back in his chair, something like dawning horror in his eyes. “Do you… do you know the date?”</p><p>She tells him.</p><p>Color drains out of the man’s face. “That was—Karen. That was years ago.” He swallows hard. “You—you know who I am?”</p><p>He looks so utterly distraught in that moment that part of Karen wants to lie. She doesn’t want to cause him pain but she’s going to.</p><p>“No,” she says.</p><hr/><p>In the next few hours, Karen learns a few things in quick succession.</p><p>First, the man sitting at her bedside is Pete Castiglione. She finds out as much when she reaches into his coat—left hanging over the back of the chair—and grabs his wallet. Pete Castiglione, forty-two years old, living in New York city. Pete himself has gone outside to flag down a nurse and tell them that Karen’s awake.</p><p>Second, he’s not lying about the date. Karen gets a glimpse of herself in the mirror when a nurse helps her to the bathroom. She’s older—her face has starker lines, her hair a little thinner and shorter, and a scar she doesn’t recognize is on one of her thumbs. Time has passed; she just has no memory of its passing.</p><p>It’s like waking up in some weird, parallel universe. She’s in another Karen’s life. Maybe if she can just squeeze her eyes shut tight enough, she’ll go back to her own. She’ll be in a shitty apartment with unpacked boxes and a new job at Union Allied. She wonders what happened to that apartment, that job, that life. She wonders how she ended up here, in a hospital with a gunshot wound to the head and retrograde amnesia.</p><p>Pete is waiting for her outside of the bathroom. He looks as though he wants to step into the nurse’s place—to take Karen’s arm—but he holds himself back. Karen gets back into bed, trying to ignore the pain in her head. There’s a dull throb, kept mostly at bay with some heavy duty painkillers. There’s an IV tucked into the crook of her elbow and the nurse tells her that a doctor will be by soon.</p><p>When her doctors arrive, there are several neurological tests. They ask her who’s president, and she gets that wrong. They ask her birthday, and she gets that right. After that, there’s a CT scan. And then a kindly looking man promising her that this is probably temporary, that the swelling probably just interfered with some long term memories, and that she’ll probably go back to normal, because brains probably repair themselves and—</p><p>There are too many ‘probably’s.’ Too much uncertainty.</p><p>At the end of the day, only Pete remains. He stands a few feet away, looking restless and thoughtful.</p><p>Pete keeps glancing at her, then away. Like he’s lost something and is trying to find it.</p><p>He has lost something, she comes to realize. <em>Her. </em></p><p>He may not have said as much, but she suspects that whatever their relationship is, it’s not platonic. She remembers the ease with which he held her hand, fed her those ice chips. His thumb keeps absentmindedly rubbing against his other fingers, like a nervous habit.</p><p>“You want me to go?” he asks.</p><p>She looks at him, tries to see him the way her other self must have. He’s attractive, sure. Broad shoulders, good hair, very nice eyes. But when she tries to imagine kissing him, she comes up blank.</p><p>“No,” she says, after a few moments. “Could we—just talk?”</p><p>He takes up the seat beside her. “Yeah. ‘Course we can.” He makes a move as if to take her hand, then stops himself. Puts his hands in his lap, instead. “What do you want to know?”</p><p>“We’re in a relationship, right?” she says. Because she wants to be certain about <em>something</em>.</p><p>“Yeah.” Pete looks at her, then away. “We’ve been together almost four years.”</p><p>“Do we live together?” she asks.</p><p>He nods. “Got an apartment.”</p><p>She looks at him, studying him. “And what—what do you do?”</p><p>“I work in construction,” he says. “Used to do more hands on stuff, but now it’s mostly managing teams and schedules.” His mouth tightens. “Before that—marine.”</p><p>That explains a lot. There’s something about the way he looks around the room, the way he stands. He’s a man who seems to be looking for danger, trying to anticipate it. “And I’m a crime reporter?” she says, skeptical.</p><p>“Yeah.” He nods. “Best damn reporter in the city.” He squints at her. “You look surprised.”</p><p>“I mean, I never saw myself going into journalism,” she says. Another terrifying thought occurs to her. “Do we have kids?”</p><p>“No.” A flicker of something crosses his face. “We’d been talking about adopting a dog.”</p><p>“Oh.” She isn’t sure what to say about that. This man knows more about her current life than she does, and it’s very disconcerting. She wants to ask him everything, but at the same time, part of her resents him for knowing so much. Karen hasn’t been in a long term relationship for years, not since—well, not for a long time. She doesn’t know how to handle the knowledge that she’s been with this man for four years and she remembers none of it.</p><p>“You should get some rest,” he says.</p><p>She looks at him. Pete’s face is rough with exhaustion; if anyone needs rest, it’s him. “Can you… I just need some time to myself.”</p><p>He nods. “Yeah. Course.” He rises from the chair. “You need anything, I’ll be outside in the hall.”</p><p>She meant for him to go home, but that’s clearly not going to happen. He quietly shuts the door behind him, leaving Karen alone in a dimly lit hospital room.</p><p>Maybe she’ll dream of her former life, she thinks, as she settles into the bed. Maybe she’ll wake up and remember everything.</p><p>But she doesn’t remember her dreams.</p><hr/><p>She’ll give Pete this—he’s an attentive boyfriend. Over the next few days, he never leaves the hospital. He brings her a phone that he claims is hers but she doesn’t recognize—and she doesn’t know the passcode. He does, and he writes it on a pad of paper beside her bed. There are podcasts and audiobooks that she hasn’t listened to, and since the doctors say she isn’t allowed to read yet, she spends a few hours listening to news podcasts, trying to acquaint herself with a strange reality.</p><p>So much has changed. The city, the government, the world. It feels unreal, and part of her is still convinced that this isn’t right, this isn’t her reality—she’s in some kind of weird dream that she just needs to escape from. But when she pinches the back of her hand, nothing happens.</p><p>There are more tests. The bandages on the back of her head are changed, and a nurse assures Karen that her hair will grow back. Karen couldn’t care less about her appearance at the moment, not when she’s been thrown out of one life and into another.</p><p>On the third day, a friend of Pete’s stops by to talk. Curtis, he says his name is, and smiles down at Karen with a kind of sadness. “Speaking as someone who’s been shot, you take things slow, all right?” he says. “Trust me. Trying to push yourself too fast and too hard never ends well.” He seems nice, and Karen relaxes by the smallest degree.</p><p>Karen takes a nap while Pete and Curtis go out to lunch—or rather, while Curtis drags him out to lunch. When they return, Karen is just awake enough to overhear some of their conversation. They stand outside of her cracked door, murmuring to one another.</p><p>“—Hard on yourself. This isn’t your fault.”</p><p>“Isn’t it?” That would be Pete. “I knew she was going to the courthouse that day. I should’ve gone in with her, should’ve known—”</p><p>“You’re not all-seeing. Some things can’t be predicted. You do the best you can in the moment. And she’s alive. You’ve got to focus on that.”</p><p>There’s a few moments of silence. “She’s uncomfortable with me,” Pete says quietly. “She had a nurse help her to the bathroom.”</p><p>“I mean, would you want a stranger watching you piss?”</p><p>“That’s exactly it. I’m a goddamn stranger to her. And I can’t just sit her down and explain everything.”</p><p>“She needs time. To heal, and to remember,” says Curtis. “Take things slow. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself to make things normal, Frank.”</p><p>Karen’s heartbeat picks up.</p><p><em>Frank.</em> Curtis said ‘Frank,’ not ‘Pete.’ And there’s clearly no one else in the hall.</p><p>A prickling of unease and suspicion sets up at the back of her mind. Karen has never trusted anything that looks too good to be true—and Pete has to be one of those things. Karen should have known that there was something wrong the moment Pete told her they’d been together four years, that they were thinking about adopting a pet. Karen doesn’t do those things. Maybe he’s some kind of con artist or someone from work trying to make her think that they’re in a relationship.</p><p>Before she can travel further along that line of thought, Pete pushes open the door. He has a paper cup in one hand and he’s wearing a heavy coat. He gives Karen a small smile.</p><p>“I brought you a hot chocolate,” he says. “The doctors say you can’t have coffee, but I figured—well, it’s not from the hospital, so it’s got to taste better than anything they have here.”</p><p>Karen does like hot chocolate and she wonders if Pete actually knows that, or if he’s guessing. He sets the cup down on her bedside table.</p><p>Karen forces herself to smile at him, but she doesn’t touch the cup.</p><p>Pete—or is it Frank?—seems to pretend not to notice.</p><hr/><p>Karen stays in the hospital for another two days. Then she’s discharged, given four different prescriptions: painkillers, antibiotic, and anti-inflammatory medication. A nurse puts her in a wheelchair and she’s pushed out to the parking lot, where Pete is waiting with a car. She doesn’t recognize it, and part of her is squirming with unease at the thought of getting into it. She doesn’t know him and he’s not telling her everything.</p><p>But she’s still too exhausted and injured to consider anything else. Pete helps her into the passenger seat and drives with care through the city, until they come to an apartment building. He parks behind it, hurrying around the car to get her door open and offer his arm. She’s pretty sure he wants to pick her up and carry her inside, but he’s restraining himself.</p><p>She wouldn’t let him do that, even if he did offer.</p><p>She’s still got some pride.</p><p>The apartment is nice. It’s not too small, with a good kitchen and a comfortable living room set-up. There are windows and sunlight and potted plants on the windowsills. There’s a computer and a desk in the corner, and the faint smell of coffee lingers in the air.</p><p>The place is nice.</p><p>Pete is nice.</p><p>Everything is… <em>nice. </em></p><p>Karen doesn’t trust it—and she isn’t comfortable with it. Everything feels like trying on another person’s life, like it isn’t really her in those pictures on the bookshelf. But it is her, smiling at the camera, arms looped with two men she doesn’t recognize. There’s another picture of her with Pete, at what looks like some cabin beside a lake.</p><p>At least it looks like Pete isn’t some stalker that wormed his way into her hospital room under the guise of being her boyfriend. There’s enough photographic evidence—and while it could be produced, that kind of thing would take time. Pete hasn’t left her hospital room long enough to spend time photoshop pictures of them together. He probably is her boyfriend—but that still doesn’t explain why his friend called him by another name. Maybe it’s his middle name, but it wasn’t on his driver’s license.</p><p>She changes into loose pajamas and gets into bed. It’s a comfortable bed, at least.</p><p>“You want take-out?” Pete asks. He’s hovering nearby, only having left the room for her to get undressed. “Or I can cook. You’ve got to be tired of hospital food.”</p><p>“I’m just tired.” Karen pulls the blankets up.</p><p>Pete nods. “Probably for the best. I’m—I’ll be on the couch. You need anything, just yell.” His eyes sweep over her one last time, and then he pulls the door shut.</p><p>Karen sits in her bed—that doesn’t recognize—surrounded by her possessions—that she still doesn’t recognize. Everything is hers and somehow not hers. There’s a dresser that looks like something she would pick out, but she doesn’t remember buying it. The bedcovers are flannel and soft, just like she would have wanted. There’s a picture of Karen and Pete on the dresser. It’s clearly a selfie, with Pete holding up the camera. They’re dressed in winter clothes, in a park somewhere.</p><p>Karen doesn’t sleep well that night. She’s never slept well in unfamiliar environments—there are strange smells and noises. The pipes creak and there’s a hum that’s probably the refrigerator. Every time, Karen jolts awake and doesn’t know where she is for a few moments. Finally, when the morning arrives, Pete knocks on the door.</p><p>He’s brought her breakfast in bed—complete with a little standing tray. “You use it for your laptop, mostly,” he says, when he sets up the tiny legs. “So you could work in bed sometimes without the computer overheating against the blankets. But since the doctors recommended you rest as much as you can…”</p><p>There are pancakes. There’s also bacon and a fried egg with the yolk just a little bit runny—the way she likes it. It’s a homey little breakfast. No coffee, though. “Doctor said no coffee for a month,” Pete says, sounding apologetic.</p><p>“No, it’s fine.” Karen looks down at the food, wondering if it’s safe to eat. She doesn’t know the man who prepared it, not really. Even if there are pictures of him all over the place. “Thanks.”</p><p>Pete nods. “You’re supposed to take it easy, but if you want, we can watch a few movies today. You must be tired of lying around in bed.”</p><p>He clearly wants to take care of her, and that’s something Karen is entirely unprepared for. She’s been self-sufficient for years now, and she doesn’t quite know how to accept all of this.</p><p>They spend the day in quiet, too-polite company. When he brings her those twice-daily pills, she awkwardly thanks him every time. He notices when she’s cold and digs a plush throw blanket out of the closet, bringing it to the couch. He knows how she likes her eggs in the morning, the exact right amount of salt and pepper. He doesn’t touch her—but it’s clearly an effort to remember not to do so. She notices when his hand strays toward her, then is shoved into a pocket or pushed behind his back. He’s in the habit of being physically affectionate, and this Other Karen must have been used to that. Part of Karen wants to trust him, because he seems decent, but she can’t. Karen Page doesn’t get a decent boyfriend—she gets men like Todd.</p><p>She can’t relax, not for a moment.</p><p>This isn’t her life.</p><p>On the fourth day, Pete goes to see some friends of his. “It’s Leo’s birthday,” he says, pulling on a jacket. “She’s—she’s a friend’s kid. Good kid. You and I… we picked out a present for her a while back. Driving lessons, since she’s turning sixteen. And I’ve seen the way her dad drives. I’m not letting David be the one to handle it.”</p><p>Karen nods along. None of these names mean a thing to her. She isn’t expected to come; she’s still under orders from her doctor to stay at home for at least another week. She’ll be watching tv on the couch or maybe taking a nap. Pete made sure to leave food in the fridge for her and he puts her pills beside a cup of water in the living room. She can tell it’s not easy for him to go—but he feels enough of an obligation to this Leo girl. “Tell them I said hi,” says Karen, because it seems polite.</p><p>Pete nods. He takes half a step toward her, as if he wants to lean down and kiss her, but then he straightens and says, “See you later.”</p><p>When the door clicks shut behind him, Karen relaxes. She isn’t sure why she’s so tensed up around him—maybe it’s just the fact she doesn’t know him, that he knows her. It feels like some imbalance of power. Or maybe it’s her instincts picking up on something else entirely.</p><p>She still remembers that moment in the hospital when his friend called him by another name. ‘Frank’—which sounds nothing at all like ‘Pete.’</p><p>Karen spends a few hours watching tv before her curiosity gets the better of her. She rises and goes into the bedroom to snoop.</p><p>Karen was a drug dealer, once upon a time. She knows where stashes get stashed, where best to hide things in a small space.</p><p>She goes to the dresser first. Checks under the drawers, prods beneath the desk, looks at the legs of the wooden bed frame. People hide things in bedrooms because it is the place most intrinsically theirs—it feels like the most safe. She looks under the bed, finds only a dust bunny. Then the closet. There’s a line of shoes, mostly flats and a few low heels. Dresses that must be hers. Clothes that must be Pete’s. A pretty cocktail dress with intricate lace. But something about the space is… wrong. Karen reaches out, places her fingers against the back corner. It’s ill-fitting, a gap there.</p><p>Her heartbeat picks up.</p><p>The closet has a false back. She presses her fingers to the edge of the wood and finds an inch-wide gap. She pries it open, and her breath catches in her throat.</p><p>She wasn’t sure what she expected—but it certainly wasn’t this.</p><p>Guns. Two pistols and one short, wholly illegal sawed off shotgun. There is what looks like several boxes of ammo. There’s a bulletproof vest scored with burn marks and something that might be rust or blood. A military-grade combat knife. Handcuffs. Several burner phones. Karen picks up one, weighs in in her hand.</p><p>Maybe Pete is just like Todd. He could be a drug runner—that would explain why a mobster shot her in the head. Retribution for selling on their turf? Or maybe he used to work for them and split?</p><p>Did the Other Karen know about this? Was she part of it? Or was she completely unaware that her live-in boyfriend has a fucking arsenal in their closet?</p><p>She rocks back on her heels, heart pounding. Frank. That man, his friend Curtis, called him Frank. It isn’t much to go on, but Karen opens up a private window on her phone, and searches for the name, as well as, ‘criminal’ and ’New York.’ She hopes that if he’s ever been arrested for drug possession, maybe there’ll be an article.</p><p>And there he is.</p><p>But—but he wasn’t arrested for drugs.</p><p>Right on the first search hit. The face is different—he’s done a good job of hiding himself. Pete Castiglione has a beard and longer hair, his face comfortably lined. Frank Castle has a military-short haircut, a face tight with restrained anger, and eyes that look as though they could bore right into her. He’s bruised in his mug shot, purples staining his eyes and nose. But it’s him.</p><p>Frank Castle. Not a drug runner.</p><p>He’s a <em>mass murderer</em>.</p><p>Shit. Shit.</p><p>She presses her hand to the wall, trying to keep herself steady. She has to get out of here. She has to keep herself safe—she should have known better than to ever trust this. Karen doesn’t get a life with a caring boyfriend and a nice apartment. She gets blood and steel and snow stained with tire tracks. This isn’t her life, and it never was.</p><p>She picks up one of the handguns and checks the chamber. It’s loaded. And while it’s been years since Karen has handled a gun, she remembers how. She strides into the living room, ready to grab her purse and make a run for it.</p><p>Then she hears a key in the lock.</p><p>Her heartbeat pounds, makes her head throb. She flicks off the gun’s safety and readies herself.</p><p>The apartment door swings open and Pete—no, not Pete—walks inside. “I stopped by a food truck you like,” he says, nudging the door shut with his heel. “Got tacos.”</p><p>But when their eyes meet, his expression closes tight. His gaze falls to the weapon in her hand.</p><p>“Don’t,” she says, holding up the gun. “Don’t you come any closer.”</p><p>He goes still. He looks odd with the bag of take-out in one hand and his coat in the other. He looks normal—not like a killer at all. But he is. She saw the news articles.</p><p>“Karen,” he says.</p><p>“I know who you are,” she snaps. “Frank Castle. You think I wouldn’t find out? And if you think I won’t pull this trigger—”</p><p>“I know you would,” he says, and his voice is soft. Careful. He drops the bag of take-out and offers his hands, palms-out and toward her. “Hey, hey. I’m unarmed. I’m not coming any closer, okay?”</p><p>Her breaths are ragged. “Get out of my way,” she says. “I’m leaving. You put those car keys on the floor and—”</p><p>Pete—Frank’s eyes flicker to the table. It’s where he left her meds. “Sweetheart, you’re on heavy painkillers. I’m not letting you—”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” Karen snarls. She isn’t going to be held hostage by him and she certainly isn’t going to let him condescend to her. “You don’t get a say in this, okay? I don’t know why you took me here, why you think it’s okay to pretend I live here—”</p><p>“You do live here,” says Frank. “Jesus Christ. You think I faked all the photos in here? Talked your doctors into letting me see your medical stuff? You put me down as your emergency medical contact years ago.”</p><p>“You’re lying.” Karen takes a step closer to the door, but she moves at an angle. She won’t let him get close enough to grab her. “If I do live here, then you lied to me. To her—the other Karen. You—”</p><p>“You knew,” he says, and that stops her short.</p><p>“What?” she says.</p><p>“You always knew who I was,” he says heavily. “From the moment we met.”</p><p>She gapes at him. “You—you can’t be serious.”</p><p>He laughs, and it’s a hollow sound. “Go to your desk. There’s a folder labeled ‘Old Articles.’ Open it.”</p><p>Karen doesn’t move. She won’t move.</p><p>With a sigh, Frank takes a step toward the desk and Karen grips the gun tighter. Her finger twitches toward the trigger.</p><p>“Karen.” His arms are loose at his sides. “I’m not—I’m not going to hurt you. You need to pull that trigger to feel safe, go on and do it.”</p><p>There’s a low note of raw honesty in his voice. So she doesn’t pull the trigger, not when he goes to the desk and pulls out a folder. He finds an article and tosses it onto the floor between them. Still keeping the gun on him, Karen picks it up, glances down at the picture.</p><p>It’s of Frank Castle—dressed in prison clothes, obviously at his trial And there is Karen, sitting right beside him. She looks confident there, her stance intent as she stares at something the camera cannot see.</p><p>Shit. She did know. Living with him—there was no way she couldn’t have known.</p><p>“The gun you’re holding, that’s yours,” he says, still quiet. “You would keep it in your purse, except for days when you went places it wasn’t allowed. Like the courthouse. Which is why you weren’t armed when that mob hitter came after you. I—I put it with the other guns because I figured it was safest.</p><p>“Please,” he says. “Put it down. I can’t watch you get hurt again.”</p><p>She looks down at the gun in her hand. “You think I’m going to accidentally shoot myself?”</p><p>“I think,” he says, a vein of frustration in his voice, “you’re still on four different medications right now. Listen to me, Karen. I’ll do whatever you need for you to feel safe. I’ll walk out that door, I’ll give you my keys. Just—put it down.”</p><p>Karen has always had a pretty good bullshit detector—it comes from working years in customer service positions. She knows when someone’s lying through their teeth or when they’re being sincere. Some things are harder to fake than others: desperation, true fear, yearning. And every single one of those emotions is stark in this man’s eyes.</p><p>Pete Castiglione. Frank Castle.</p><p>She can’t remember the last time anyone looked at her like that—like she’s the only thing worth looking at.</p><p>Setting the gun on the coffee table takes some effort, but Karen does it.</p><p>“Thank you,” Frank says, voice soft.</p><p>“Don’t get comfortable. You are going to sit over there,” Karen says, pointing at the farthest wall from the front door. “Do not move. And we—we’re going to talk. And if I think you’re lying to me, I’m running out that door and calling the cops.”</p><p>Frank nods, accepting. “Fair enough.” He goes to the far wall, sitting. He keeps his hands in his lap, visible. Karen stands near the door, so she’ll have easy access in case she needs to run. “You should eat one of those tacos, though. They’re shit when they’re cold.”</p><p>Karen gives him a look.</p><p>“Who are you?” she says.</p><p>He gives a small shrug. “Seems like you figured that out. Should’ve known you would. You’ve got a knack for digging up truths that most people’d rather stay buried. It’s how we met—you were working for a pair of lawyers that wanted to represent me. They just wanted to make sure I didn’t end up on death row, but you wanted more. You wanted to know why I was killing, why I did the things I had. So you lied to the DA’s office, got my files, found my medical records and broke into my house.”</p><p>Karen blinks at him. “Seriously?”</p><p>“I know,” he says, smiling a little. “Same exact reaction I had, when you told me all of it. But that’s what you do. You don’t give up—not sure that’s in your vocabulary.”</p><p>She swallows. “And what did I find out?”</p><p>He tells her.</p><p>All of it.</p><p>Part of her wishes he hadn’t, because the story is a tragedy that touches a little too closely to her own wounds. Fallen family, self-recrimination, a failure of justice.</p><p>It takes the better part of two hours for him to tell the story. It’s a wild tale of danger and bullets and conspiracies, and she is half-tempted to disbelieve him, but the way he tells it—it’s without bravado or thrills. He recounts it with a weary kind of acceptance.</p><p>It’s the truth—or the truth as he understands it.</p><p>Karen ends up sitting on the couch, because her legs are too tired and she is fuzzy. She does eat one of the tacos. It’s still good, even though it’s cold.</p><p>“Who else knows?” she asks.</p><p>Frank clears his throat. “My friend Curtis, of course. We were in the marines together—he knows everything. Your friends at Nelson and Murdock. The Lieberman’s. Nelson’s wife found out a few years ago. Your boss—he only found out about a year ago, and he’d probably have had an issue with it, but he found out after some asshole started stalking his family, sending pictures of a gun and his wife and kids, of where they went during the day. I tracked the guy down, stopped him. He was about to take a shot at one of Elliosn’s kids.”</p><p>“Stopped him?” Karen asks.</p><p>Frank nods. “Broke both his legs. Left the cops to find him and all of his evidence. You asked me to, so I did. Ellison was grateful—and I think that may have kept him from turning us both into the cops. He’s not my biggest fan, but he’s not about to do anything to hurt you.”</p><p>When she touches her fingers to her aching temple, Frank makes a move as if to rise.</p><p>Karen looks at him sharply.</p><p>“I’m just going to grab your meds,” he says.</p><p>She stares at him. Unsure if she wants to trust him or not. Every logical part of her is screaming to get out of there—but some deeper part wants to dig into this. To dig into him, to unearth those parts that the Other Karen discovered. He’s a mystery and she’s always loved unraveling those.</p><p>He must see her hesitation.</p><p>“Karen,” he says. “I’d rather eat that fucking gun than hurt you. If you believe anything—believe that.”</p><p>She isn’t sure she believes him—but she takes the pills from his worn palm and swallows them.</p><hr/><p>Maybe she should run. Maybe she should leave.</p><p>She stays.</p><p>But she locks the door to the bedroom at night. And drags a chair over, putting it up against the door.</p><p>It’s not paranoia if there’s actually a self-professed killer in the next room.</p><p>Karen spends the better part of a week re-acquainting herself with the reality of her new life. This Karen Page was a person who dates a mass murder and writes about crime and was considering getting a dog before a mobster shot her in the head. Karen finds the police report and reads it. From the sound of things, the injury happened just the way Frank tells it: Karen was outside of the courthouse and Frank was meeting her for lunch. A mob hitter pulled a gun from about thirty feet away—but one thing the police report mentions is that if someone hadn’t cried out a warning, the shot probably would have been fatal. Because Karen was turning her head, she was only clipped by the bullet. Frank Castle probably saved her life in that moment.</p><p>It’s something. Something that makes her trust him a little bit more.</p><p>A few others stop by the apartment to visit her. There’s a dark-haired blind man called Matthew who speaks with Frank quietly about dealing with the mob hitter. There’s clearly some tension between the two men, and Karen decides she’d rather not get in the middle of that. Matthew comes to sit beside her on the couch, asking if Karen remembers him.</p><p>“No,” she says, and there’s that familiar flicker of pain across his face. It’s more muted, but still visible. Karen feels a little like a murderer in those moments. She killed the Karen Page these people clearly want by merely existing, and now she can only sit here and hope not to hurt them too badly.</p><p>There’s a Franklin Nelson and his wife Marci, who’s pregnant and glowing. They seem nice. They bring her a basket of food from Franklin’s family shop.</p><p>Clearly, they all care about her—so they wouldn’t leave her with someone they didn’t trust. Even Matthew, who argues with Frank, still says quietly that he’s glad Frank was there when it happened.</p><p>Frank ends up going back to work part time after a week. His work keeps calling and he keeps blowing them off, but Karen insists. She can’t disrupt his life any more than necessary.</p><p>He agrees to return for half-days. And Karen is a little relieved to have the apartment to herself for a few hours every work day. It’s a time when she doesn’t have to pretend that she’s all right with this.</p><p>All in all, it’s a confusing, painful time and Karen tries her best to do as Curtis advised, but she’s never been patient.</p><hr/><p>It happens about a week and a half after she left the hospital. Karen is washing out her cup of hot chocolate—still not allowed to have coffee—when she sees the tiny blue and green decoration on a shelf above the sink.</p><p>It’s a tiny ceramic dish. It’s probably for jewelry, she realizes. So rings and earrings don’t fall into the sink and down the drain. She reaches down and finds—</p><p>A ring.</p><p>It’s a ring. A simple band, embedded with diamonds.</p><p>She looks down at her left hand. There’s a slight crease, a pale sliver of skin on her ring finger. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she slides it on.</p><p>It fits perfectly.</p><p>She must have taken it off to do dishes—and never put it on again, not until after—</p><p>Oh,<em> fuck.</em></p><hr/><p>That night, when Frank comes home from work, she is waiting for him.</p><p>“Are we married?” she asks.</p><p>Pain flashes across his face. He glances away, as if it hurts too much to look at her.</p><p>He goes to the couch, sits down. Karen exhales, goes to the fridge, and pulls out a beer. It only feels fair, considering everything. She goes to sit beside him, handing him the drink. He takes it without really seeming to notice.</p><p>Finally, he says, “‘Bout a year ago, you made some joke about us getting married, so you wouldn’t have to ever testify against me. And I made some crack about you only wanting to see me in a tux, and then you said you’d marry me if I were wearing old flannel and work boots and I just…” He trails off, and there’s such tenderness in his face that Karen’s chest hurts. “There are pictures—if you look in the bottom drawer of your desk, under the folders. Put ‘em out of sight so you wouldn’t—I just didn’t want you to… wasn’t sure—”</p><p>She goes to the desk, opens the drawer. The pictures are in a manila envelope and she pulls them out with unsteady fingers.</p><p>Her knee-length dress is cream, layered with intricate dark blue lace and a full skirt. It’s not traditional, but it’s beautiful. Frank is in a suit, smiling at her. His eyes are crinkled upward, and his whole demeanor is different—lighter, more buoyant. In the next picture, they’re sitting on a bench, heads bowed as if talking to one another. Whoever snapped the picture must have done so when they weren’t looking. Frank’s hands are twined with hers. They must have gotten married in someone’s backyard, because she can see a wooden fence and someone’s soccer ball.</p><p>She looks… happy. This Karen is clearly overjoyed to be married to Frank—always touching him, her posture relaxed and easy.</p><p>“It was small,” says Frank. “That friend of mine—David Lieberman—offered to let us use his backyard. You had Nelson and Murdock over, and I had a friend. Curtis, you saw him at the hospital. David’s wife and kids were there, of course. We took a road trip up north, to the finger lakes. Rented a cabin for a long weekend.”</p><p>She’s married to him.</p><p>They’re married—and he never said.</p><p>“You aren’t wearing a ring,” she says.</p><p>Frank looks down at his own hands. “I take it off at work. It’s in a desk there—didn’t have time to put it on that day at the courthouse. Left it off, because you’d had enough to take in. Didn’t want you to feel—like you were trapped.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says.</p><p>He looks at her. “Why?”</p><p>“Your Karen,” she says, touching one of the pictures. “I feel like—like I killed her somehow. Just by existing, I took her away from you.”</p><p>“No,” he says, clearly startled.</p><p>“Everyone looks at me,” says Karen. “Wanting me to be her, and I don’t know how to be. I’m not her, I can’t be her.” Breaths coming faster now, a little panicked. “This woman—the one you’re married to, she’s not me. She’s got friends and a steady job she’s held down for years, and a functioning relationship and—”</p><p>“Hey.” He turns toward her. He stands so that his shoulders align with hers. “I know you don’t remember it, but you’re still you.”</p><p>“I’m not her,” she says, helplessly.</p><p>“You are,” he says. “You may not have all of your memories, but I know you. And you’re the same woman I fell in love with, you got that?”</p><p>She looks at him. At this man she doesn’t know who’s her husband. And for the first time, she feels a true sense of loss. She lost so much, and she didn’t even realize until this moment. “Can—can I…?” She doesn’t know how to say it. She leans into him, wanting to feel some kind of human contact.</p><p>His arms go around her, gently—so gently. As if he’s afraid to hurt her. They stay that way for a long while.</p><hr/><p>And then everything goes to shit.</p><p>It happens a few days after she finds the ring. She doesn’t start wearing it—it doesn’t feel right. She places it back in the ceramic dish and tries not to look at it when she goes into the kitchen.</p><p>She’s in the kitchen when Frank gets the call.</p><p>“—Got to be fucking kidding,” he says, and the words are a low growl. “When?”</p><p>Karen’s spine straightens. She’s never heard that tone in his voice before and it sends something like a thrill of fear or—excitement?—through her. It’s like hearing a song she can’t quite remember the lyrics to, but she knows it. She knows that voice.</p><p>“Goddamn it,” says Frank. “He’ll be on a boat before the cops can get there.” He walks into the bedroom, tucking his phone between chin and shoulder as he goes. Karen follows, her heart thudding hard. Frank has pulled open the closet and reached inside the false back. He pulls out two guns and a few boxes of ammo. “Yeah? And if you do that—you know what’s gonna happen. Exactly what happened the first time. Son of a bitch lawyer’s up—and then he’s back on the streets. Not happening.”</p><p>Frank takes the phone, ends the call, and tosses it onto the bed. Then he reaches into the closet again and pulls out something black and heavy. It’s a bulletproof vest. There’s no skull, but she can tell it’s been used before. There’s dents and old stains that might be blood.</p><p>“What happened?” asks Karen.</p><p>Frank doesn’t look up at her as he works, loading both of the guns. “The piece of shit who shot you—he’s out on bail. Not supposed to leave the city, but it won’t matter. His mobster family will have him out of the country by midnight. Murdock thinks he can hand the man back over to the cops, but it won’t change a thing.”</p><p>He begins pulling on the vest with quick, practiced movements.</p><p>“So you’re going to kill him?” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to ask.</p><p>He looks at her, and there’s steel behind his eyes. “I watched him put a gun to your head and pull the goddamn trigger. I’m not letting him out of the city.”</p><p>He’s going hunting. He wants to hunt for the man who killed his wife and left a stranger in her place.</p><p>Karen wonders what the Other Karen would have done—if she’d have asked him to leave it alone or if she’d have let him have this.</p><p>Fuck it. She isn’t that Karen, but she still knows what she wants.</p><p>“Frank,” she says. “No.”</p><p>He looks at her sharply. “What?”</p><p>“No,” she repeats. “I—I don’t want this. Your Karen wouldn’t have wanted this. I’m not letting you get hurt on some stupid mission.”</p><p>“It’s not—”</p><p>“You said someone else was going to bring him to the cops?” says Karen. “Then let him do it.”</p><p>Frank runs his hands through his hair, looking more on edge than she’s ever seen. “He’ll just—”</p><p>“He hurt me,” says Karen. “He came after me—this is my choice. And I want the cops to deal with him. I want you home and I want you safe.”</p><p>He looks at her, vest half pulled on, surrounded by weapons. His posture is one of uncertainty.</p><p>“Come to bed,” she says.</p><p>His throat jerks in a surprised swallow.</p><p>“Just to sleep,” she says. “Please.”</p><p>She thinks it’s the last word that does him in—Frank’s expression cracks right down the middle, leaving behind only grief. He’s mourning her, the wife he lost that day in front of a courthouse. And Karen doesn’t know how to comfort him, but she knows that she wants to. And that’s something.</p><p>He shucks out of his armor, leaves it hanging over the back of the desk chair. It’s the first time she can remember seeing him bare—in little more than boxer briefs and socks, and then even the socks are tossed away. He pulls on loose sweatpants and unloads the guns, putting them back inside the closet.</p><p>Karen pulls on a nightgown and slips into bed, taking the side closest to the bathroom. Frank hesitates only a moment before getting in. He seems to be taking care not to touch her.</p><p>She flicks the light out, and in the dark, things are easier. She turns into him, finds his body with her own. He’s taut, every muscle seemingly tense as she rolls over onto her side, curling up against him. “Is this all right?” she says softly.</p><p>A moment. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft in the dark. “Yeah.”</p><p>His arm goes around her, and even if her mind doesn’t recognize this, her body does. There’s a deep comfort in closing her eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing, and letting the warmth of his body seep into hers. It feels like this was what she’s been waiting for, ever since she began sleeping in this bed. This was the missing puzzle piece—not her memories of the bed, but his presence in it.</p><p>She wakes in the morning to the sensation of warm breath against her hair. His arm is still slung around her, and she’s content just to stay there. It feels nice, to rest and know that she doesn’t have to worry. At least, not for a few moments.</p><p>If this is her new life, it isn’t bad. She likes Frank—and she suspects, after a while, she’ll probably love him. She’s always liked writing; she’ll have to relearn all of her journalism skills. Or maybe she’ll find a different job. She’ll re-meet her friends.</p><p>Things will work out.</p><p>Frank awakens about twenty minutes after she does; he makes a soft noise, an inhale that’s a little startled. A half-cut off snore. He sits up, and his hair is askew, curls wild.</p><p>It’s kind of adorable.</p><p>Karen smiles at him. “Morning.”</p><p>“Hey.” He blinks a few times.</p><p>“This was nice,” she admits. She settles her hand on his bare chest and he takes it, stroking her fingers one by one.</p><p>“I need a shower,” he says. “But first, coffee. You want a cup?”</p><p>“I thought I wasn’t allowed,” she says.</p><p>“I’ll add extra milk.” He kisses her cheek. She lets him—the kiss is nice. He slips out of bed, leaving her warm beneath the covers. She stays there for a few moments, listening to the sound of Frank in the kitchen. Then she grudgingly gets out of bed, reaching for a robe.</p><p>His vest is still across the desk chair. She should put it away.</p><p>She picks up the vest. And she doesn’t know why she does, it but she brings it to her nose. Something—something about it—</p><p>It’s the <em>smell.</em> Gunpowder and smoke, sweat and steel. Karen buries her face into that vest and inhales hard, trying to draw every bit into her lungs.</p><p>And it all comes rushing back.</p><p>It’s like something breaking loose, a crack exploding wide.</p><p>She feels dizzy, almost drunk. She has to go back to the bed and sit down, pressing her hands to her knees. Frank walks into the bedroom, two cups of coffee in hand. When he sees her face, panic flashes across his. “Karen?” He strides across the room, barely managing to set the coffee down before kneeling before her. His hands go to her shoulders, and he looks at her like he’s surveying a battlefield. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Frank,” she says.</p><p>He goes utterly still. Maybe it’s the way she says his name—with so much love and meaning—but he seems to understand at once. He reaches for her, and then her arms are locked around his neck and she’s clinging on, holding for dear life.</p><p>“It’s you,” he says, words muffled against her hair. “Goddammit, Karen. I wasn’t sure you’d ever—shit, I missed you so much.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” She kisses the side of his neck, his shoulder, every inch of bare skin she can reach. “I love you and I’m sorry—” She aches with the memory of a gun in her hands, aimed at him.</p><p>“You came back,” he says hoarsely.</p><hr/><p>“What was it like?” he asks that night. “Not remembering.”</p><p>They’re curled up in bed together. Technically, she knows the doctors didn’t want her having sex for another week or so, but they were careful. Or rather, Frank was. And they needed that reconnection, that familiarity. Frank strokes her bare arm, and she closes her eyes.</p><p>“Terrifying,” she admits. “It was like—like showing up and finding myself the lead of a play that I didn’t know any of the lines to. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, how I was supposed to act.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says.</p><p>“For what?” She’s tucked tight against him, her head resting on his chest. She can hear every heartbeat and inhale, and it’s reassuring.</p><p>His hand moves up her back. “Should’ve stopped it. That day outside the courthouse. I—I saw the hitter reaching for his gun and I couldn’t—couldn’t get there in time.”</p><p>She remembers now. She remembers the courthouse and the sun beating down on her bare arms, and the sound of Frank shouting her name, panic in every syllable. She remembers turning to look at him, seeing his face stark white as he rushed toward her.</p><p>Then—nothing.</p><p>“You did save my life,” she says. “If you hadn’t called out to me, he’d have had a clear shot. The way the police report read, the assassin just nicked my skull.”</p><p>He lets out a sigh, his fingers still toying with the hair at the nape of her neck. “Of course you read the report.”</p><p>“Of course,” she echoes, smiling against him. “I’m just sorry you had to go through all of that.”</p><p>She understands now—everything he must have endured over the last few weeks: watching her get shot in the head, staying with her in the hospital, probably being overjoyed when she finally woke up, and the anguish when she didn’t recognize him.</p><p>“Not gonna lie,” he says, “if I never have to live through that kind of shit again, I’d be happy.”</p><p>“You think I’m going to get amnesia again?”</p><p>“Weird shit,” he amends. “Like amnesia or super villains with metal bones or—or any of that bullshit.”</p><p>“Sounds good to me.” She snuggles closer. “I love you, you know that? Even when I didn’t know you, some part of me still wanted to trust you.”</p><p>He makes a small, slightly amused sound. “Looked real trusting with your sidearm aimed at me.”</p><p>“Hey,” she says, nudging at him. “I’d have shot you if I didn’t trust you.”</p><p>“A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”</p><p>She kisses him. “I love you. I’m sorry I ever forgot that.”</p><p>His hand curls around the back of her head—careful, so careful. Her wound is mostly healed, but there will be a scar. “Don’t ever apologize. I’m just glad you gave me the chance to stick around long enough for you to remember.”</p><p>She lets out a soft breath. “I’m going to have to call everyone. Let them know I’m no longer years behind.”</p><p>“Tomorrow,” he says.</p><p>“Tomorrow,” she agrees and lets him pull her even closer.</p>
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